The Draft (29 page)

“Skip Henderson.”

He stopped, and then she stopped.

“Really?” That can't be good.

He got behind his desk and plucked the phone from its cradle. Outside, Susan tried her best not to eavesdrop.

Jon went to press the blinking hold button, then paused to make sure this wasn't just a bad dream. No such luck. He cleared his throat and brought the phone to his ear.

“Skip? Hey, it's Jon,” he said casually, hoping his cheerful tone would somehow sway the odds in his favor. “What's up?”

“Jon, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I have some bad news for you.”

16

Ten minutes later,
Jon set the phone down gently, put his hands together, and stared into space. He was numb and cold. A million thoughts swirled together.

The first thing he had to do, he knew, was tell Connally. He closed his eyes and shook his head at the prospect. The old bastard had been stomping around like a monster in a Japanese horror film all morning. One of the people in marketing and promotions had been given the responsibility of ordering a thousand T-shirts; cheapos that the team could give away at various PR functions to keep the fans happy. But she sent the printer the wrong logo—the old one from the Ravens' first two seasons that they eventually had to discard after a lawsuit filed by one of their former security people who claimed, apparently rightfully so, that he in fact created the design and was never compensated for it—and all the shirts had to be destroyed. Over two thousand dollars down the drain. And since the girl who made the mistake was new, it really wouldn't be fair to fire her. It was just one of those instances when you had to bite the bullet. But Connally was absolutely livid. It wasn't the dollar amount that bothered him but the idea that it had been wasted. If there was one thing Peter Connally abhorred, it was waste.

And what of the new offer Skip had received? It must've been unbelievable. Jon thought
he
was out of his mind when he tendered his last proposal. Somewhere out there was a team about to lose a lot of talent. Whoever had made the final decision, Jon was happy he wasn't in his shoes. The fans would kill the guy. Who even had that much to spare? When this was all over, he would be very curious to find out who was behind the deal and what they gave up. It never occurred to him that it might be Brendan Cavanaugh. He figured it was one of the other three teams that had been most aggressively after McKinley—the Chiefs, the Seahawks, or the Texans.

Regardless, the objective now, impossible though it may be, was to forge a superior counteroffer. And this needed to be done—he checked his watch—within twenty-four hours. What were the choices? The first one was to throw more chips into the pot—add more players. But who did they have left?

He scanned the roster again and again, and could no longer avoid the name of Darryl Bailey. If he didn't make a difference, then Jon might as well wave the white flag right now, because they had nothing else that Skip wanted, and there weren't any other decent defensive leftovers around to trade for. Bailey was a playmaker. Skip said repeatedly he didn't want offensive guys, but he had expressed an admiration for Bailey many times. Maybe that was all it would take. Jon had never mentioned the possibility of including Bailey to anyone. It had always been more theoretical than anything else. He desperately wanted to find some other name on their roster that Skip would jump at. But there wasn't one.

Jon thought briefly about Raymond Coolidge. He did own the kid's rights for the moment. Would he be able to use him as trading fodder? Could he be a factor? It was an interesting idea. Skip would need a quarterback, after all. Of course he wouldn't take McKinley and give up the chance to obtain so many other players. But what if he got all those others
and
a promising young quarterback?

He realized he was drifting out of reality now. First of all, there was very little chance brokering such a deal would be legal. The commissioner would never sanction it. The paper he'd faxed to Freddie yesterday was very clear; Friedman had taken a number of prelaw classes at night and, although he never earned a law degree, knew legalese as well as anyone. Distilled into a language anyone could understand, the agreement stated that the Ravens retained Raymond's rights until the Monday after draft weekend because they wanted the first chance to try him out in the event they didn't acquire another quarterback. All Jon had requested was the chance to bring him in and have the coaches look him over before anyone else, nothing more.

Then a horrible thought occurred to him—he might simply be out of ammunition. This was sickening. Like everyone else in the NFL, both on the field and off, Jon
hated
losing. There were
always
ways to win. In the past he had wondered if this was one of the trademarks of true genius—believing there was always a way, and that the only real challenge was finding it.

All the traditional routes were exhausted—trimming the roster, offering more draft picks, making trades. Darryl Bailey was a panic-button choice, and even that wasn't a guarantee. Raymond Coolidge was a no-way.

What else was there?

*   *   *

He paced furiously, cordless phone pressed against his ear, waiting for Gayle to pick up. He almost wished he had one of those hands-free headsets Friedman had. Holding the damn thing against his face was painful after a while. And if you supported it with your shoulder long enough you got a kink in your back. Still, the headsets made you look like you worked the drive-through at McDonald's.

“Come on … come on…”

He glanced at the clock for the tenth time in so many minutes. His heart was racing, his hands trembling slightly. He was on a high like no other. This was what he loved most about the NFL—that razor's-edge competition that delineated the winners from the losers. It was what made the job worthwhile.

He froze when he heard a click on the other end. “Hello?”

“Gayle? It's Jon. I've got—”

“I'm sorry, Jon, this is Melissa.”

He recognized Gayle's secretary right away. “Oh, hi, Melissa. Is Gayle around? It's sort of an emergency.”

He dropped down on the leather couch and set his feet on the glass coffee table, wrinkling the cover of the latest issue of
NFL Insider.
His co-workers would've been amazed—he had a standing rule against putting feet up on this table.

“Sorry, Jon, he's in a meeting with the coaches.” Jon's stomach sank. “If you'd like, I can give him a mes—oh, wait, here he is.”

Jon jumped back up. “Thank God.”

The line went dead again, and Jon straightened some papers on his desk while he waited. When he was done with that, he grabbed a large paper clip, set it with one finger, and “kicked” it across the room with the another. It landed in a small wastepaper basket.

“Score!” he said quietly.

“Jon?”

“Gayle?”

“Hey, what's up?”

Jon sighed. “You're not going to believe this.…”

“What? Don't tell me someone outbid you.”

“Yeah.”

“My
God.
”

“I know, un-goddamn-believable.”

“Who had that much to give up?”

Jon threw up his hands. “Who knows? Skip wouldn't tell me. If I had to guess, I'd say it was the Chiefs. They have some depth, plenty of cap room, and some picks to spare. Gostranich is a pretty wily guy. I'm sure he's been doing all the same things I've been doing for the last week. Then again it could've been anyone. There are plenty of teams that could use McKinley.”

“Jeez, I'm sorry,” Gayle said. “So I assume you're looking to sweeten your own offer now?”

“You got it.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?

“Actually, yes, there is.”

“Okay, shoot.”

Jon took a deep breath. “Any chance I can get Aaron Timmerman back?”

At first there was only silence. Jon expected as much, so he waited.

“Who?” Gayle said finally.

“Aaron Timmerman. Remember, three years ago?”

“Yeah, I remember. Are you crazy? He's the best linebacker we've got. Are you on drugs? Have you been getting help? Does Kelley know?”

“I'm not on drugs, asshole, I'm serious. I'll give you.…” He scanned the spreadsheets on screen, although he'd seen so many times he really didn't need to look at all. “Oh hell, I'll give you whatever you want.”

“If I let Timmerman go, they'll feed me to the alligators. You know they have alligators down here, right? They say the Mafia loves them because they eat the—”

“I thought you were having contract problems with him. The rumor is he wants to renegotiate a year early. If you dealt him back to us, you'd save yourself a lot of heartache.”

“No, we need him. We've got plenty of salary cap problems coming up, yes, but that's because the last moron who had this job was under the impression money grew on trees.” He groaned. “That's next year's headache. Timmerman won't make it any easier by asking to renegotiate, but at least he's worth it. It would be stupid to give up a good player when we're stuck with so many average ones.”

He knew it was a longshot, but he had to try. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Sorry, buddy.”

Jon glanced at the clock again.

“All right. I gotta go. I'm running out of time.”

“Who's next?”

Jon chuckled. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Not Cavanaugh.”

“Obviously.”

“Then who?”

“Like I said, you wouldn't believe me.…”

There was a pause, and then Gayle said, “Wow, you
are
desperate.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?”

Gayle was laughing. “Clearly. Well, good luck with
that,
my friend.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

*   *   *

With the supreme effort of his life, Jon lifted the phone and dialed the number Susan had given him for Tom Wright. The face she made when he asked for it was priceless. Her first thought, clearly, was that he was kidding. Then she dug through her Rolodex to find the dustiest card she had.

It was no secret around the league that Jon wasn't a member of the Tom Wright fan club. Wright was cold and impersonal, insensitive and unapproachable, and he had a streak of megalomania that would've kept a team of psychoanalysts busy for years. Worst of all, though, was the simple fact that he wasn't very good at his job. Unlike Jon, Gayle, Skip, and most other GMs, he had virtually no experience with personnel acquisition, yet he insisted on maintaining total control over that side of the Cardinal organization. Consequently, most of the players he'd drafted and acquired through free agency were washouts. Rumor had it he once based a pick on the fact that he liked the guy's name.

True or not, it was hard to defend his incompetence—the Cards never had a winning season under his direction. He was generally disliked not only on the outside but also by his own people. The assistants complained that he was too detached, the trainers and coaches complained he was too cheap, and the marketing people complained that his ideas were idiotic and impractical. The only person in the club who seemed to like him was Frank Merriweather, the owner. And Wright seemed to like him, too. They shared a love of sailing and golfing, and together with their wives they often took trips together in the offseason.

Jon had managed to keep his distaste to himself until a party in Baltimore a few days after they'd won their first Super Bowl. He had a little too much to drink and, when asked if he thought his job was secure now that he'd put together a championship squad, replied, “Look, if Tom Wright still has a job, no one else has anything to worry about.” The comment was heard by more people than he intended, and it eventually got back to its victim. It made a small splash in the press, but Wright refused to respond to it, and it was soon forgotten. In fact the only response it received was from the Arizona fans who, ironically, seemed to agree.

As Jon tapped in the number, he wondered if Wright still harbored a grudge after more than a year. Surely not, for they were all professionals and could remain objective, right?

A female voice answered. “Hello, Tom Wright's office.”

“Hi, may I speak with Tom, please?”

“Who's calling?”

Damn.

“It's Jon Sabino.”

A pause, and then, “Who?”

He smiled in spite of himself. No surprise there, he thought. Whenever they needed to take care of any business with Arizona, which was rare, he let Kevin Tanner do it. They probably thought there was a better chance of Knute Rockne calling.

“Jon Sabino. Of the Baltimore Ravens.”

“Um … okay. Hold on.”

The line went quiet, and for a moment he thought he might be left hanging there. Then a voice appeared—“Hello, Tom Wright.”

It was that same flat, almost robotic tone Jon disliked so much. This guy had the most dispiriting personality Jon ever encountered. Who on earth would hire someone like that to run a football club? He was a walking corpse.

“Tom? Jon Sabino.”

“Yes, how can I help you?”

With that one line, and the tone in which it was delivered, Jon knew beyond any doubt that Wright still had a chip on his shoulder. And a fairly large one at that.
This guy wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.

“I'm calling to inquire about your first round pick in the draft tomorrow. The second overall.”

The idea was sheer genius—to include the second overall pick in the package to Skip. Regardless of who got the first pick, McKinley would be gone. But McKinley, in spite of all the hype, wasn't the only gem in the draft. There was a defensive lineman from Southern Mississippi named Gavin Hamble who had shown a devastating ability to squelch running games. He wasn't as visible as McKinley largely because defensive players weren't as showy as those on offense; fans could more easily grasp and appreciate the value of scoring points than tackling or blocking. But Hamble was one of the best hole pluggers to come along in years. Following the law that good defenses won championships, a lot of defensively weak teams would want him. It was generally agreed that he would be taken after McKinley. Most believed Arizona, who had weaknesses to spare, would grab him. But with a wild card like Wright at the helm, you never knew. If that pick could be offered to Skip, Jon reasoned, he could trade it for even more players. There was still time.